


Brains

by htebazytook



Category: Star Trek RPF
Genre: Established Relationship, Humor, M/M, PWP, Rough Sex, Slash, Smut, roleplaying
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2009-12-23
Updated: 2009-12-23
Packaged: 2017-11-06 18:27:01
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,805
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/421875
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/htebazytook/pseuds/htebazytook
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>An exercise in Sylar.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Brains

**Title:** Brains  
 **Author:** [](http://htebazytook.livejournal.com/profile)[](http://htebazytook.livejournal.com/)**htebazytook**  
 **Rating:** NC-17  
 **Disclaimer:** <\--  
 **Pairing:** Zach/Chris  
 **Author's Notes:** An exercise in Sylar.

 

 

"Ugh, I'm starving. Can we please order an appetizer or something?"

"What's the matter, Zach, hungry for brains already?" John says. Zach scowls while the rest of the table laughs.

"That was pretty lame even for you, John," Karl says.

"Not only lame," Zach interjects, "but inaccurate. Seriously, how many times have we been over this?"

Zoe starts to say something but Chris is tired of being confused so he cuts her off: "Been over _what?_ "

Everyone just laughs like he's made some terribly witty remark and it only annoys him further.

"Guys," Chris says. "Seriously, what the fuck are you talking about? Apparently I'm tragically out of the loop."

Simon laughs. "Heroes, Sylar, brains? I was under the impression that the regular viewing of mindless television was a staple of patriotism in this country."

"I mean, I don't really watch TV, you guys . . ."

There's an onslaught of shock and disbelief—nay, outrage—all around the table. Chris tries to get a word in edgewise:

"Okay, I'm sorry, but I like to think of myself as a reasonably intelligent person with discriminating tastes."

Groans around the table now. Chris knows he's kind of a pretentious douche, but that doesn't mean he's gonna waste hours on end in front of a glowing screen of triviality just to seem less snobby.

"Princess. Diaries," Simon says solemnly.

"Woah," Karl says, holding his hands up. "That was way below the belt, man. Seriously." He's grinning at Chris as he says it.

Zach's been staring at Chris like he's sprouted antennae for awhile now. He speaks up: "Wait. Wait. So you _haven't_ ever watched—okay, wait. _Really?_ "

"No, Zach. What the fuck? Didn't realize you were such a narcissist. Well, I did, but."

Zach lowers his voice. "It's just that you, uh. Well, I just _thought_ that. Well." He makes these vague gestures indicating the two of them to which Chris raises a dramatic eyebrow. Zach blushes and waves all his words away and takes a drink. "Later."

Chris raises his other eyebrow and Zoe totally fails to stifle her snickering. The rest of the guys just look uncomfortable, and in Karl's case, a little turned on.

*

"Okay, _Zach_ , what the fuck was that all about?" Chris asks once they're outside and walking to Zach's car.

Zach sighs, stares at his keys and concentrates more on unlocking the car door than anyone in the history of ever.

"Hey, I'm sorry I don't watch your crappy TV show. Considering how much time you dedicate to _whining_ about your job security and oh so long hours, I didn't think it meant that much to you."

"Stop being such a little bitch. I don't care if you watch it, jeez."

Chris tries to catch his eye but can't, sighs and gets in the car after him.

Zach starts talking the second the door closes. "I thought you liked it rough because of Sylar," he blurts, stares at the steering wheel. "I mean, in bed. You know, like—"

"Yeah, I got it." And the ensuing awkward silence is a _really_ awkward silence for them—they're usually so good about laughing things off. After a minute Chris has thought of something to say. "O _kay_. Um—well here's a thing: have you _ever_ seen me watch TV of my own volition? Like, ever?"

Zach starts the car, shrugs. "Well, no, but . . ."

"But what? Just because I'm an actor I'm required to watch every piece of crap on TV? Are you _seriously_ telling me it's my sacred thespian duty to watch Two and a Half Men?"

"Dude, I don't understand why you're so pissed off. This is supposed to be an amusing little interlude."

Chris folds his arms and seethes out the window. Zach's hand slides onto his leg after a minute. Chris sighs. " _I_ may be kind of pretentious, but that's a _pretty_ egotistical assumption on your part. You know that right? Sorry. Just—you know I don't want you just because of some character you play."

Three stop lights later Zach says, "I dare you to watch Heroes."

"Yeah, sure," Chris snorts.

*

There's no way Chris is about to actually rent or, God forbid, purchase a damn TV show, so he finds it on Netflix online and erases his history whenever he's done. It's a little like secretly watching porn.

The show starts out annoying him with its lack of crazy hero-y activity. He hates Hayden's character, he hates _all_ the Petrelli's, and goddammit Zach isn't even onscreen. He gets impatient with the slow moving plot and takes to reading newspaper articles online while it trudges annoyingly on in a half-hidden window behind them. Zach appears, _finally_ , but it's only for a second and Chris is starting to concentrate his exasperation with the entire show on the lack of Sylar, so whenever he does show up it only pisses Chris off.

Sylar doesn't really make the show _better_ , per se, just more interesting. The polarity is more balanced out or something. Zach plays it pretty broad sometimes, but he wears the clothes so well it feels justified.

Chris doesn't realize how invested he is until his computer takes forever to add season two and he starts screaming at it and throwing things.

In season two Zach is fucking _hot_. Chris still hates most of the other characters but that's okay because by now he's just rooting for Sylar and ignoring the nice, practical news articles he used to read in favor of ogling his own boyfriend like a salivating teenage girl.

Soon Chris is going through multiple episodes a day, crazy to know what happens next and becoming preposterously aroused by Zach's empty psychotic eyes, the contrasting intensity that screams out of them when Sylar goes in for the kill.

It's only been like two weeks and he's already scrambling for illegal uploads of the latest season. He's actually interested in the other storylines now and kind of hates himself for it.

*

Chris comes up behind him in the kitchen, arms winding around his waist and chin on his shoulder. "Be Sylar," he says.

He can see the smirk out of the corner of his eye before he twists in Chris's arms, turns that _look_ on him.

Chris gets a little breathless. "Perfect."

Another fleeting smirk across Sylar's lips before he spins Chris around, somehow holds Chris's wrists tight behind his back while pressing him into the counter. Chris closes his eyes to stop the room from spinning, lets out a startled gasp when Sylar bites teasingly at the nape of his neck, lets hot breath ghost over the moistened skin and nibbles over to Chris's ear, breathes, "Delectable . . ."

Chris shivers again, tries to push back against Sylar and gets held forcefully still. The hand encircling his wrists tightens while Sylar's free hand smears over Chris's face, gets all caught up with Chris's lips until Chris sucks one of his fingers into his mouth to swirl his tongue around. Sylar's shuddering exhale against the back of Chris's neck both lulls Chris into a haze of lust and jolts him with arousal. Sylar bites at his neck again and Chris sucks on his finger showily in response, wet lascivious sounds and little moans leaking from Chris's mouth.

Sylar presses harder against him, grinding, Chris's hands trapped a little painfully between them now. Fuck, Sylar got really hard really fast. Superpowers. Chris would laugh, but he's just as turned on. Three seasons of intermittent foreplay has left him a little shameless in his desires.

"Tell me what you want," Sylar says, deep, raspy, breathless, like he can read Chris's mind.

"Oh, God. So much to choose from . . ."

Sylar pushes him impossibly harder into the counter and Chris is torn between laughing and moaning and exhilarating fear.

"Never mind," Sylar says. "I'll choose for you." He pulls Chris's T-shirt over his head in one swift move, tweaks a nipple along the way.

Sylar's heat departs, leaving Chris half naked and exposed and somehow the temperature of his blood only rises because of it. He's close to catching his breath again when Sylar spins him around, hot brand of his hand, foreign glint in his eye.

Sylar gives another nearly playful little shove. "Strip," he says, folding his arms. The way he has his sleeves pushed up gone from casual and trendy to purposeful. He stares unblinkingly, brows furrowed ever so slightly, and Chris can't believe how much this is turning him on—it's the little things, really . . .

Sylar's stare snaps into something even stronger. "I'm sorry—do I have to _repeat_ myself?"

Chris scrabbles with this belt, and the sound of it is deafening in the silent kitchen with Sylar's eyes on him, the confidence in his shoulders. That's what makes him so captivating—his focused, deranged expression at odds with the stillness of his body.

Chris doesn't hesitate before kicking off his shoes—Sylar raises an eyebrow when one narrowly misses him—and shimmying out of his jeans and underwear. All Chris can do is grin while his heart hammers.

The corner of Sylar's mouth twitches in response. "Good, Chris. Any thoughts on what happens next?"

"You want me to take your clothes off?"

"Sharp as a tack," Sylar says. "There's just one thing, though—give me your belt."

Chris obeys, gets up in Sylar's personal space while he's at it. "There ya go, buddy."

Sylar just continues to stare, unaffected except for the hunger boiling in his eyes. He pulls Chris against him and Chris becomes too lost in the feeling of the various fabrics against his super-sensitive skin to realize right away that Sylar's tying his wrists securely behind his back with the belt.

"Ah. Good thinking."

"I know. And hey, _pal!_ Do as you're told." Sylar forces Chris down until he's on his knees, nearly toppling without his hands to use for balance.

"Careful, careful!" Sylar tsks. "We wouldn't want you getting hurt."

Chris is pretty confident he can unbutton Sylar's shirt using only his mouth in a decently sexy manner, so he goes for it. Unfortunately, although Chris's tongue may be particularly adept in certain other areas—tying knots with cherry stems included—the slippery little buttons on Sylar's shirt are more of the challenge than expected. He curses under his breath.

"Having trouble? Would it help if I put a time limit on this, give you some motivation? Promise rewards and punishments? Maybe . . . you don't get to come until you've completed this _one. Simple. Fucking. Task_. That sort of thing?"

Chris glares, weighs his options. He snags one of the buttons between his teeth and rips it off, spits it out to skitter across the tiles and meets Sylar's eyes again with open smugness.

It's clearly a struggle for him not to flip out about designer labels and 100% silk and shit, but he keeps it at bay and Chris has got to give him props for that. Chris continues up Sylar's body using this method, licking Sylar's chest along the way as the skin's revealed, spits the top button out and lets himself be pulled into a deep, dizzying kiss. Sylar bites at his bottom lip after, rubs his thumb over it and spreads saliva. Chris ducks his head and attempts to push Sylar's shirt off his shoulders, succeeds for a minute before Sylar stops him.

"Get on the counter," Sylar says, walking into him and making Chris backpedal before Chris can even get his bearings. Doesn't wait for Chris to hop up on his own and just lifts him instead. Chris always forgets how strong he really is, imagines it's superhuman and can't suppress a moan.

"How, how do you want me? Like, bent over or—?" Sylar's hand covers his mouth. He watches Chris's eyes flutter, obsessive observation, and Chris just tries to watch Sylar's other hand make quick, effortless work of his own jeans, tries not to overbalance or knock anything over with his incapacitated hands or get too turned on by how tightly they're bound. Wants Sylar's hands on him immediately.

"Gonna fuck you now," Sylar tells him, gripping his arms for emphasis or balance or pleasure. "Until you can't remember your own name. And you will _beg_ for it, won't you?"

Chris can't find his voice.

"I can't hear you, Chris . . ." Sylar's grip tightens.

" _Yes_ ," Chris grits out. " _Please_ , anything—just do it . . ."

Sylar must've had a condom stashed in his jeans and dug it out and put it on the counter at some point because now he's rolling it on and scanning around . . .

"Fake-butter-stuff-from-breakfast," Chris says all at once.

Sylar slides the still-open tub over from the far side of the counter and slicks his cock, holds up his buttery fingers for Chris to clean off. Chris complies with gusto and Sylar groans, leans closer to breathe into Chris's ear hotly.

Sylar trails his spit slick fingers over Chris's face, down his neck. "And what would you like me to do with these?"

"Fuck me," Chris mumbles.

"I'm sorry, what was that, Chris?" Sylar punctuates his question by sucking Chris's earlobe into his mouth.

"Fuck. Me." And Sylar just raises his eyebrows at him. "Now?"

" _And?_ "

". . . Please?" Sylar smiles, darkened eyes crazy and perilous up close. "Fuck me now, _please_ , Sylar. Please."

Sylar slides his fingers gradually but constantly into Chris, doesn't stop until he can brush Chris's prostate and get him to shout and tell him to shut up, stop him with his mouth and make Chris wild with lust, with the inability to touch him.

Another significant press with his fingers to distract Chris and he replaces them swiftly with his cock, gets the head in and waits for Chris to adjust somewhat before thrusting fully into him.

It does hurt, but so does the leather around Chris's wrists and so does his achingly hard cock, and Sylar doesn't do anything to relieve it any of it, just thrusts steadily into him and keeps Chris at his mercy.

"Tell me what you want," Sylar orders, stilling his movements until Chris answers, biting at his neck in the meantime. "Chris. _Tell_ me—"

"Harder," Chris says. "And touch me."

"Excuse me?"

" _Please_ fuck me harder and please, _please_ just touch me . . . I'm so fucking hard for you . . ."

"Hm. We'll see." Sylar starts to move again, and he does fuck Chris harder, but slower too, pulling nearly entirely out before slamming back into him, black eyes boring into him the whole time.

"You like that? God, you're such a slut, Chris. So fucking tight for me." Chris just moans in response and Sylar seizes his chin to make him look at him. "Tell me you like it."

"Fuck, yes, love it, love your cock, pleasepleaseplease just do it faster, please . . . ohgod, _yes_ . . ."

"Mmm, so slutty. Want me to touch you?" Sylar speeds his thrusts, pinning Chris's hips still against the counter and Chris has to angle his head against a cabinet to keep from falling over.

" _Ohfuck_ —"

"Tell me how much."

"Uggggghhh, please, come on, please, want it _pretty fucking bad_ , and, and . . . oh my God that's _so good_ . . ."

Sylar just continues looking at him like a ripe and forbidden fruit he intends to pluck and slice and devour and fucks him so roughly and never actually touches Chris's cock and _holy shit_ Chris is already coming, jerking his hips involuntarily to meet Sylar's thrusts. Moans _Sylar_ over and over in disbelief and tightens his muscles around Sylar's cock until he comes hard with a shout, nails digging into Chris's hips.

It takes several minutes of panting and soft, unconscious strings of words and names and curses before Chris has the energy to meet Zach's warm, brown, half-lidded eyes. And they just stare at each other, dazed, until there's nothing to do but laugh.

"Um," Chris says hazily. "Bed now?"

Zach laughs again. "Definitely."

They disentangle themselves, somehow, and trudge through the house to the nearest mattress. Collapse in a heap on it.

"Oh- _kay_ ," Chris says, studying Zach study the ceiling. "So how many times have you done that?"

"More than I'm proud of."

Chris laughs, rolls over onto his side and drapes his numb, blissful appendages vaguely over Zach, kisses his neck and finally catches his breath.

"Well, you know," Zach shrugs. "It's fun."

"Fun," Chris repeats. "We're describing that as 'fun'. Damn, you're really just a pile of post-cotial mush right now, huh?"

Zach laughs. "I'll think of a better word in a minute, jeez. So demanding."

"Nah, I take it all back. Fun fits." Chris burrows closer. "Love you."

"Mmm, you too. Stop squirming."

"Fuck you. Oh, and remind me to make you watch this one episode of CSI: Miami. I really think you'd like it."

*


End file.
